


New Old Friends

by PepperF



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Prompt Fic, sharing blankets, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 21:32:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5841757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This version of the Doctor (he claimed to be the eighth incarnation) was still a bit of a stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Old Friends

This version of the Doctor (he claimed to be the eighth incarnation) was still a bit of a stranger. Martha had known a later version, apparently, but she was still having trouble with the whole non-linear timeline thing, and part of her kept expecting him to remember things they'd done. Another part of her kept expecting the 'real' Doctor to appear and tell her that an alien imposter had stolen the TARDIS—it wasn't the _most_ unlikely scenario she'd ever faced. But some things remained the same: he had the same manic energy, and she still had the slight suspicion that he was deliberately seeking out all these famous and notorious people, places, and situations so that, in five hundred years or so, he could casually namedrop them to someone who wouldn't have the faintest idea what he was talking about.

There was something particularly joyous about this one, though—like he was constantly on the brink of bursting into song. It was sort of sweet. Her Doctor had been a bit more hipster and a bit less RADA. The Doctor—this one—said that it was rude to compare incarnations like that game, the one with the little heads ( _not_ Guess Who?, as it turned out), but quite frankly he could stuff it. If he was going to keep changing bodies, people were going to talk. The curls were cute, too—very careless boho artist-esque.

And this one had been, well, a bit less put out by her doctorate—in fact, he seemed delighted by it. He said he'd imprinted on a doctor when he first woke up. She wasn't sure what that meant, exactly, but she wasn't touching it with a barge pole—she'd had enough of that the last time, thank you very much.

(This one hadn't met Rose. A tiny, selfish part of her breathed a sigh of relief.)

However. The Doctor was the Doctor was the Doctor, so she only hesitated for a moment before sticking her foot out and tripping him up as he dashed past again. He fell with quite an impressive thud.

"Ouch," he said, in the tone normal people used for 'gosh', or maybe 'oh my goodness what an interesting rock'. Still prone, he turned his head and peered at her. She could still just about make out the blue of his eyes in the gloom. "Something you wanted, Dr Jones?"

"Look, Doctor, face it: we're not getting out of here tonight. The guards have gone home, and this place is just one big rock." She lifted the edge of the blanket invitingly. "And I'm freezing, so get in here."

He sat up. "Oh, if you're cold, I could probably rig up—"

"Body heat," said Martha, firmly. "We'll survive. And then tomorrow you can, I dunno, fake being sick, and when they come in, I'll hit them over the heads with something."

"Brilliant!" said the Doctor, with apparent sincerity. "They'll never see it coming!" And apparently that was that.

Martha huffed a laugh. "You're easier to please than... than you were before," she told him, as he shuffled in next to her, with their backs against the wall and the one meagre blanket tucked around them. It ended up mostly on his surprisingly broad shoulders, but that was okay, because he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her in close. His coat was worn and comfortable, his shirt was distinctly unstarched, his trousers (breeches?) were creased and bagged slightly at the knees, and his leather boots were pale-edged and scuffed. Close up, she realised, this Doctor was kind of soft.

"After," he said. She looked up at him, eyebrows raised. "Than I will be after, not before," he clarified. "Although after what, I don't know." He looked thoughtful.

She felt the urge to reassure him. There'd been something a little lost in his voice. "You're mostly the same, though," she said. "I mean, I guess something had to have killed you – or whatever it is that makes you reincarnate—"

"Regenerate."

"Yeah, that."

"More than once," he added. He was grinning again.

"Right. Which for some reason amuses you, you weirdo. But you're still you. Aren't you?" She said the last part more as a statement than a question; she'd affirmed his identity without even thinking, completely sure of this relative stranger for the first time, and for no good reason except that this—stuck in a cell on an alien planet with only a blanket and the oldest, stupidest, most obvious escape plan in the history of the universe to keep them warm—was _so very familiar_. Which said a lot of things about their adventures, one of which was that stupid plans were often surprisingly effective.

"Yes, I suppose I must be. After all, you're still my friend."

Martha smiled, feeling a familiar pang. No one but the Doctor could infuse that phrase with so many layers of meaning. "I suppose I am," she agreed.

He folded his legs up, and Martha shuffled down a bit, making herself comfortable.

"Go to sleep, Martha Jones," said the Doctor.

Feeling safe, she was asleep in minutes.


End file.
